Laurens Interlude
by kixotical
Summary: On August 27, 1782, John Laurens was killed during the Battle of Combahee River in South Carolina. When four different people receive the letter sharing his death, four different stories share their thoughts and reactions, and at the end of the night, one more miracle will occur... Rated T for mild cursing
1. I May Not Live To See Our Glory

There are some moments in life that just can't be described in words.

I still remember the moment. The rifle slung over my back. My faithful horse, Solitude galloping underneath me. A field covered in a blanket of stars shining above me.

If my soldiers weren't getting blown to hell, I probably would have enjoyed it. Trying my best not to let my fear overtake me, I gazed around the horrific sceme displayed beside the river. The smell of gunpowder and the sound on gunshots filled the air, and I did my best to comfort Solitude.

Gazing around, the only thing I seemed to see was red. Redcoats battled with the soldiers bathed in blue, and red blood and spattered on the previously vibrant grass.

None of this detered me, however. Trying my best to remain confident, I gripped the reins on Solitude a bit tighter and felt the reassurance of the rifle bumping against my back. Nathaniel Green may be the general, but this was my battle, and I was about to finish it.

I wasn't sure when the moment happened. All I remember is the sound of a gunshot closer than the others soaring through the air, and suddenly I was knocked off Solitude, sent sprawling onto the grass.

My mind tried to wrap around the situation, but the second thing I remembered was the pain. A searing, horrible, breath-stopping pain that made every limb in your body go numb, and felt like a metal spike was being struck through you.

With nothing more to do, I shrieked. It was like a horrible, inhumane sound that was just purely noise.

And then the cold came.

It wasn't just sudden, like someone whipping a blanket off you in the middle of winter. No, it was how you wouldn't expect it; cold and slow, like water being poured out of a cup.

Weakly, I reached up and touched the corner of my mouth. A thin trail of blood had begun to run down my cheek, and despite the circumstances, I gave a small smile. So this is how it ends. Born in South Carolina, die in South Carolina.

Well, not in the same place obviously. But you know what I mean.

As the warmth began to fade from my body, I gave a small cough, and blood spattered onto my lips. I thought back to Aaron, the Princeton graduate who acted like he had a stick up his ass. Last I heard, he was married.

I couldn't help giving a small smile as I thought of my own wife, Martha. Maybe Burr and his wife would have a daughter just like mine, Frances.

I thought of Hercules, the simple tailors apprentice back from '76. Ha, fta load of shit that had done him. He had gone from so much more than that, becoming a literal, actual _spy_ in the war. I tried and failed to think of something cooler than that.

I thought of Lafayette, our boy from France. Just thinking about it, I realized how amazing it must be to leave your home country and in a completely stranger sountry become a major general. Now _that_ was an amazing accomplishment.

But most of all, I thought of Alex. Ha. What would become of him now? He never did seem to be satisfied. Nathaniel Greene had wanted to hire him, but he always thought he could do better in life. Heck, I didn't doubt him for a second. I always knew he was capable of great things.

By now, he was married to Eliza, and I heard he had a son a year old, Phillip. I just had that feeling, that feeling, that on top of that, he would amount to more. So much more.

And look at me. I had been born to a father who owned the large slave trading company in British America, and here I was, with the first black battalion. I had become a lieutenant colonel in an army, and here I was, on the grass, dying like a martyr.

As I closed my eyes for the last time, I thought back once more, and decided that if I had to go back, if I had the chance to do it all over again, I wouldn't change a single thing.


	2. But I Will Gladly Join The Fight

**There was a knock at the door.**

At first, Hercules ignored it. Small droplets of sweat beaded on his forehead as his large fingers gripped the tiny silver needle, a single piece of white thread about to go through the eye. He would get the door of course, but it could wait until after he threaded the needle.

Or perhaps it couldn't. After a few more moments, the knock sounded again, this time much louder. Letting out a groan of frustration, Hercules reluctantly dropped the needle and thread on the table and sat back, rubbing his hands on his face. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't seem to finish the coat.

"I'm coming!" Hercules called, standing up and mentally preparing an excuse for why the coat wasn't done in case it was the man who had made the order. Prying open the wooden door, Hercules expected to see the red hair and bushy mustache of the man who had ordered it, but to his surprise, it wasn't him at all.

Instead, a young mailman with a lanky frame and brown hair stood in the doorway. "Pardon me, are you _Hercules Mulligan?_ " He asked, reading off his sheet of names.

Hercules gave a small nod. "Well, if I'm gonna be anyone, I would be him," he said giving a small smirk. The young man didn't smile back, only reached in his bag and pulled out a small folded sheet of paper. "I believe this is for you," he said, handing him the paper.

Giving a small nod, Hercules thanked the man and shut the door before finally looking at it. He brightened just a tiny bit when he saw the familiar red wax seal imprinted on it. A letter from John! Ever since he had left to join Nathaniel Greene's army, he hadn't heard as much from him.

The only things he did hear about him were from the letters he sent to Alex, but apparently he didn't send them to anyone else. Or at least, he thought he didn't. Grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen, Hercules sat down on a small wooden chair , unfolded the letter, and began to read the first line.

And that was when time stopped.

It was as if all the atoms in his body had aligned and misaligned themselves at the same time. His grip on his glass loosened, and it feel to the floor in a shatter, exploding pieces of glass everywhere. Hercules barely noticed though. Now gripping the paper with both hands, he scanned the first part of the sentence again and again, hoping he had misread it.

 _On Tuesday the 27th, Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens was killed..._

Hercules didn't need to read any more after that. Clenching his jaw, he dropped the paper and put his hands on his head. No. No. _No._ It had to be a mistake. They had just finished a battle; of course systems had gotten messed up. They must have put the wrong name.

But then, why did they still send it to Hercules? And why did he still have this deep, sinking feeling inside him that something was very, very wrong?

He didn't even think twice about it. Standing up, Hercules stormed off to the kitchen and threw open the cabinet, whipping out a large flask and beginning to chug it right there in the kitchen. He didn't give a fuck what happened.

After a moment, the flask was almost completely drained and Hercules staggered a bit, dropping the flask on the floor as he felt the effects of the alcohol rage on inside him. He already felt a bit dumb, but he had built up a large toleranc eto alcohol over the years, and this didn't do much.

Still, he slumped down against the wall clutching at his head. It couldn't be true. It just couldn't. John Laurens, his friend, his partner, was _dead._ How could this happen? How?

Hercules was not a man to cry, but at that moment hot tears stabbed at his eyes, but standing up, he quickly brushed them away. Rushing over to the coat hook, he grabbed his velvet blue jacket with the golden buttons and burst out the door into the August air.

The day was perfect. A bright sun shone high overhead in a sea of blue sky dappled with pure white clouds, and every tree was filled with vibrant green leaves. Citizens milled about, talking laughing, having fun as if they didn't give single shit.

Well, Hercules did give a shit. And this? This perfect day? It seemed like a mockery, like the world didn't care what happened. It seemed just wrong to have such a perfect day on a day like this.

Turning a corner, Hercules stormed into the nearest bar, slamming the door behind him. Inside, it was the exact opposite of the world outside. Dark and dank, the _Libery Tavern_ was where pure things went to die. Sunlight filtered in through dusty windows, and burly men with rippling muscles drank and arm wrestles throughout the whole place.

Not even speaking, Hercules laid some money are the counter and ordered a large cup, the largest size they had. Gratefully taking the glass, Hercules walked over to the nearest booth on the other side of the bar and began chugging the drink again.

As he felt the warm, bubbly liquid slip down his throat, he realized that none of it was wiping away the pain. Reluctantly, he took the letter out of his pocket and finished reading it.

 _On Tuesday the 27th,_ _Lieutenant Colonel_ _John Laurens was killed in a gunfight against British troops in South Carolina._ _These troops had not yet received word from Yorktown that the war was over._

 _He's buried here until his family can send for his remains. As you may know,_ _Lieutenant Colonel Laurens was engaged in recruiting 3,000 men for the first all-black military regiment. The surviving members of this regiment have been returned to their masters._

Hercules sat there, simply staring at nothing. For a moment, he gripped the paper with his large hands, crumpling it at the edges. Clenching his jaw, a single tear slipped down Hercules's cheek as he crumpled up the paper and threw it against the wall, as if that would make the news disappear.

Not only had John's death been wrong, everything _about_ it had been wrong. If the British soldiers had been informed in time, John would still be alive! Why couldn't anyone tell them?

Everyone in John's regiment had been returned to their owners. Why? Couldn't they see that that was John's _legacy?_ If they got rid of it, were they trying to make John disappear as well?

Unable to take it anymore, Hercules finished off the glass and stormed over to the counter, ordering refill after refill of the bubbly liquid. He couldn't take it anymore. After about six or seven drinks, Hercules began to feel a little sick. He found it harder to think, but he didn't care. If he couldn't think, then he couldn't be upset about John's death.

"Fill me up again," Hercules ordered the bartender, his words slurred. The bartender, a muscled man with a bushy mustache looked Hercules over. "You alright man?" He asked. "Maybe you should ease up on the drinks." Hercules clenched his fists together. His friend had died. Did he look okay?

"I didn't ask for your opinion, bastard," he snapped. _"Stop being a dick and get me another drink."_ The man stepped out from behind the counter, his arm crossed. "Hey, who are you calling a bastard?" He growled, giving an ugly sneer. On most occasions, Hercules would have backed down. This was not most occasions. It felt as if nothing mattered, and pissing off this guy didn't matter either.

"I did. You got a problem with that?" He said, slamming his glass on the counter, and a few of the guys in the background went _oooooooooo..._

Before he knew what was happening, Hercules got up and shoved the man in his large chest, and sneered up at him.

And that was when he died.

Not actually of course, but it certainly seemed like that. A large fist slammed into Hercules's nose, and for a moment he couldn't feel it. Staggering backwards, he wiped under his nostril and saw blood on his finger, but he didn't have time to inspect it for long.

Suddenly, his arms were being pinned behind his back and we was slammed into a table, spilling a bunch of guy's drinks. Struggling to get up, Hercules swung a punch in the man's direction, but he was already drunk and felt woozy, and his punch missed miserably.

Laughing, the man held up his hands. "Look at this guy!" He said, picking up Hercules and slamming him into the floor. "Go on, get out of here before I throw you out," he said, kicking Hercules. Holding up his middle finger as he went, Hercules stalked out the door, painfully aware of the eyes on him, and slammed the door as he went.

As he stepped outside he realized it was almost evening. Maybe it had been more than seven drinks.

Whatever. It didn't matter. Too drunk to make his way home, Hercules staggered into an alley where he finally slouched down. Before he left, he picked up the letter and had stuffed it into his pocket. Now, he took it out and stared at it, reading the message over and over again.]

At the bottom, they had included a small picture of John, which looked like it had been a stamp. Feeling his bloody lip and nose, Hercules held the note to his chest and felt a tear slip down his cheek.

As he stared up at the darkening twilight sky, he thought he could just make out the shape of a man with long curly hair, a nice jacket, and smiling a familiar, freckled smile...


	3. And When Out Children Tell Our Story

**There was nothing better than a sunset at sea.**

Well, okay, not actually at sea. But if the boat was in the water, that was close enough. Sighing, Lafayette set down his bag as the boat approached the Philadelphia shoreline, buildings making silhouettes in the distance.

Resting his arms on the wooden railing, Lafayette released a sigh of content. This, _this_ was what it felt like to be alive. Only true travelers would ever know the relief and happiness that came to returning home.

Or was it really home? Technically he had been between France and the Colonies so much he wasn't quite sure which was really his true home. Setting his gaze on the city dock as it slowly came into view, he finally decided it didn't matter. Home was where the heart was; and in this case his heart was in two places.

Yes, part of his heart was in France. It was the place he grew up, the place he knew, the place he had fought for. But another part of his heart was here, in the colonies. He had fought in their Revolutionary War against Great Britain, from the Battle of Brandywine to the Siege on Yorktown.

Allowing a small smile to pass between his lips as more people began to board the boat, men giving hearty handshakes while women tearfully waved hanker chiefs to the ones they were parting with. Smiling, Lafayette had leaned back. He had already said his good-byes to Alex and Hercules, and even managed to squeeze a small one out of Aaron.

It was like ripping the eyebrows off a baby. A very large baby with a stick up his ass.

Forget that. His only regret was that he hadn't gotten to say bye to John, but according to Alex he had been fairly busy with Nathaniel Greene's army, and couldn't make it out to see him off.

Still, he would see him when he came back to America. Right now, he needed to work out some negotiations with France that just couldn't wait.

Leaning back, Lafayette chose a seat on deck and settled back. He was just preparing to maybe take a small nap when there was a light tapping on his shoulder. Prying open a single hazel-colored eye, Lafayette looked up at a strange man.

He was young and lanky, with a thin frame an a nicely groomed crop of hair sitting atop his tan head. He seemed mildly flustered in the crowd of people, and he was wearing a mailman's outfit, with a brown leather bag with a single strap hanging off his shoulder.

Grasped in his sweaty palms was a single slip of paper, an envelope with the stamped side turned towards him. "Excuse me, are you... _Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du-"_

"Yes, that's me," Lafayette said quickly, holding cutting the man off and sparing him of pronouncing his full name. The man handed Lafayette the letter, dipped his head and quickly ran off in the direction of the exit.

Curiously, Lafayette turned the envelope over in his hand. It was thick, with a wax seal used for Nathaniel Greene's army used to keep the envelope closed, and on the back the return place read South Carolina.

 _A letter from John!_ Lafayette thought excitedly, not being able to help the wide grin that lit up his face, though he couldn't help wondering what it could possibly be about. It didn't seem like John to send letters to him for no reason; the only person John actually did that with was Alex.

Still, it was exciting to actually get a letter from him. Quickly, Lafayette ripped off the wax seal, breaking it in two and sending half of it skidding on the ship floor.

The piece of paper inside was actually quite thin, despite what the envelope perceived. Still, Lafayette opened the letter, his eyes beginning to scan over the words...and stopped.

No.

No.

 _No._

Fuck. Even though the words were displayed right in front of him, Lafayette's mind refused to comprehend what he was reading. His breathing becoming heavy, Lafayette suddenly became light-headed, gripping the paper tighter and crinkling it along the edges as he read over the letter one more time to make sure it was authentic.

 _On Tuesday the 27th,_ _Lieutenant Colonel_ _John Laurens_ _was killed in a gunfight against British troops in South Carolina._ _These troops had not yet received word from Yorktown that the war was over._ _He's buried here until his family can send for his remains. As you may know,_ _Lieutenant Colonel Laurens was engaged in recruiting 3,000 men for the first all-black military regiment. The surviving members of this regiment have been returned to their masters._

 _Lieutenant Colonel_ _John Laurens was one of the two casualties suffered at the Battle of the Combahee River, while nineteen more were wounded. The battle against the British troops was eventually won, as the British eventually retreated to their boats. The loss was not in vain, and we thank you for your continued support._

 _~General Nathanael Greene_

Lafayette stopped reading as soon as he reached the bottom, and in the corner of his grief there was a small section of anger. They _thanked_ them for their _continued support?_ Was that all they had to say? A man had died, and all they basically had to say was _sorry for sacrificing your friend but hey it had to be done._

Unable to hold onto the truth held in the letter, Lafayette turned around and flung the letter off the boat. It didn't sail through the air and land with a satisfying splash as he had wanted, but instead floated down gently, landing on top of the water where the waves slowly soaked it.

Frustrated, Lafayette gripped the railing until the blood left his knuckles, turning them white. Why did bad things happen to good people? John was a good man; his father had been a slave owner, and that had inspired him to bring 3,000 slaves the chance of a lifetime.

He defended George Washington's honor in the duel with Charles Lee. He showed relentless loyalty and effort all throughout the war. And _this? This_ is what happened to him? What did he ever do to deserve this?

Clenching his fists, Lafayette squeezed his eyes shut tight as his mind flashed back, back, way back to the day when they all got together.

That single bar in New York City was enough to change the lives of all of them. Even then, Lafayette could see they had spirit. Alex, their poet boy (Alex resented the nickname, which was why Lafayette continued it). Hercules, their tailor/spy. Even Aaron, who pretended not be interested in any of it.

And then there was John. Damn it, he had a good heart. And now...this.

The sudden sound of a ringing bell jolted Lafayette out of his thoughts. Startled, he looked up, then settled down as he realized the ship was finally beginning to pull away from port. Everyone on board rushed over to the end of the ship, waving and screaming good-bye.

Still, Lafayette couldn't rejoice in them. A cold, desperate feeling of sadness squeezed his heart, the kind that felt like it could never be healed. As tears flowed down his cheeks, Lafayette glanced over the side of the ship. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he climbed onto the railing, and then just, for a moment, just let go...

No. Stop. He couldn't think like that. He couldn't. No matter what, he had to stay strong. He couldn't just let sadness overwhelm him. There were people out there who let dark thought sweep them, and he wasn't one of them.

When his dad died, Lafayette stayed strong. When he was denied passage to America, Lafayette went anyways, and stayed strong. And now, he would stay strong, for himself, and for John.

As Lafayette gazed out at the slowly shrinking city, he thought he caught a flash of familiar, curly brown hair...

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 **Wow...that chapter was shorter than the others, but whatever, I still enjoyed writing it. Thanks for reading, and look out for the next chapter.**


	4. They'll Tell The Story Of

**Hey everyone! It's me, and for the record I am _so_ sorry about the delay! I know, the last time I updated was, what, October? Yeah...now it's January...sorry about that. The Alexander chapter that everyone (and I mean everyone) has been asking for is coming very soon, so just hold tight and enjoy this chapter!  
**

 **And yes, I know Aaron wouldn't seem like the best choice for someone to mourn John, but he would have his reasons, and they'll be mentioned later on! Anyways, onward with the fanfiction!**

* * *

 **Reading to Theodosia was the highlight of Aaron's night.**

"...and then, as the pair stood on the terrace balcony, Emily grabbed Charles forward, and the two sealed their love with a kiss. The end." Aaron closed the small maroon book with a sigh, setting it down on the small oak nightstand.

Glancing over at the bed, he saw the little girl of which he had been reading with, who was wide awake when he first started, now laid down, her breath esacapimg her lips in small bursts.

The thick quilt of which her mother, Theodosia had sewn for her was now pulled up to her chin, her deep brown eyes like two chocolate chips shut tight, and her curly black hair worn in two pigtails now sinking into her pillow.

Smiling, Aaron leaned down and kissed Theodosia on the forehead. "Good night Theodosia," he whispered, and Theodosia didn't say anything, only shifted a bit under the covers.

Sighing, Aaron stood up. So far, his life had managed to somehow get better. He 'won the girl' as some people called it, won in the Battle of Yorktown, and now even had a daughter. So far it seemed like everything was going his way.

As softly as possible so not to wake her, Aaron crossed the room, and was about to grab the door, but before he could wrap his fingers around the doorknob, the door swung open itself, and a tall woman entered. She had dark cocoa skin and hair tumbling down her shoulders in fat, black coils.

Her lips were full and thick, and despite the worry lines having a child had caused her, she still looked remarkably beautiful. "Ssh-she's asleep," Aaron whispered to Theodosia, gesturing to the sleeping Theo. Theodosia looked over, but she didn't smile like she usually did when she saw her daughter sleeping.

Her eyebrows had ruffled together, and there was a worried look in her deep brown eyes. Suddenly, Aaron felt uncomfortable. Carefully shutting the door behind him so as Theo would not hear on the slim chance she was awake, Aaron regarded Theodosia's upset look and crossed his arms.

"What is it?" He asked, and Theodosia didn't say anything, only took out a single slip of paper out of the pocket of her apron. It was a thick envelope, pure white, and from the looks of it it had been opened. The flap hung open, and there was only half of a seal, though even still Aaron could tell it was the seal of Nathaniel Greene's army.

"John sent a letter?" Aaron asked, mildly surprised. Of all the people that came to mind, John seemed to be the last person who would send him a letter. "No...no, he didn't," Theodosia replied, and as the words slipped past her lips, Aaron felt a cold stone of doubt settle in his stomach.

It was a sinking feeling, the feeling that something wasn't right, that something terribly wrong had happened. Pressing and unpressing her lips, Theodosia took out the letter and began to read.

"On Tuesday the 27th, Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens was killed in a gunfight against British troops in South Carolina" As Theodosia read the first part of the letter, Aaron's eyebrows raised in surprise, and a small gasp involuntarily escaped his lips. John was dead?

Aaron's hand flew to his mouth as Theodosia continued to read, and to his surprise, when he pulled it away it was wet with droplets of tears. Aaron never cried, let alone unintentionally.

Shocked, Aaron staggered back so that he had to lean against the wall as the weight of the situation took a toll on him. John, as well as Hercules, Lafayette and Alexander had never really been people he considered close friends, but hearing that John was dead...and he was so young...the air was suddenly sucked out of him like it it was being sucked up through a vacuum.

A light hand grasped Aaron on the shoulder, and it took him a moment to register it before he finally looked over and saw Theodosia, her lips pressed into a frown. A mixture of worry and mild sadness brimmed in her eyes as she saw him. "Are you alright, Aaron?" She asked gently.

For a moment, Aaron didn't say anything, only stared at her, feeling himself shaking silently, Still, the young man forced a smile and brushed her hand away. "Don't worry, I'm fine," he lied, shakily walking away, but even still he could feel Theodosia's eyes burning into the back of his skull.

It didn't make any sense; he didn't even know John well. He remembered talking to them in the bar, and always having him be with Alex, but he had never actually become good friends with him. So why, _why,_ did he feel this way? It was like someone had slapped an icy hand across his face, leaving him shaking and vulnerable. Slumping in a large brown armrest, Aaron leaned over, his forehead resting in the palm of his left hand.

Regret. An emotion Aaron thought he had left long behind, Aaron tried to fix his lungs with calming breaths as deep claws of regret raked over him, so strong he felt he had to straighten himself up to catch his breath. He had thought all of that had been long gone. He thought that the regret had ended a year ago, when after countless hours spent fighting in the trench, the war for the country had so silently yet so desperately wanted to see had become a reality.

On that day, on October 19, he finally got to go home. On that day, he finally got to see Theodosia and his new daughter, Theodosia Jr, or Theo for short. While the country had been freed from Britain's rule, he had been freed from his doubts. He would be able to do everything he would be able to do, without Redcoats looking over his shoulder.

For so long, Aaron had bit his tongue, kept silent and kept his true thoughts to himself. _Stay quiet, stay alive._ Aaron remembered these words very clearly, the same words that the couple that had raised him after the death of their parents had repeated to him every day. _Stay quiet, stay alive._

Only look where staying quiet had gotten him. On that fateful day in 1776, at that bar in New York, Aaron had the chance to be a part of something. He had seen it, the spark that had ignited in Alexander, Lafayette, Hercules, and of course John. And yet he did nothing. The simple words _stay quiet, stay alive,_ still rang in his mind, echoing in his thoughts. He had a wife. He had a daughter. He was happier than he had ever been, and he would never give up Theodosia and Theo for anything.

And yet...it still felt like there was a tiny piece missing from his life, a missed opportunity. What would have happened if he had joined in with the group that day? What would have happened if he actually got to sit down and talk with them? The possibility had always been in the back of his mind, but now that John was dead...it was almost as if that opportunity had officially slipped past his grip.

John had the best heart of all of them, no doubt about it. Alexander was the brave, impulsive one, Lafayette was the enthusiastic one, and Hercules was the one that always made the risky choices, but of all of them, John had the purest heart. He could just...see it. For once, he wondered what would have happened if he had actually spoken to them. To John. If he had known he was going to die tonight...he knew by now, that death could not be prevented.

No matter how much you want it to be, no death can be reversed. The death of his parents could not be undone. The death of his sister, Sally, would forever linger. The hole left in his heart, bouncing from home to home, meeting and losing, would forever remain. No matter what you try, death finds a way. So if he could talk to John before he died...if he could actually speak to him before he died, he would have asked him a question. Just a simple question, but a question that had been lingering in his mind for years, despite his overruling thoughts.

"What happens when you don't want to wait?"

What if you don't want to wait for the Redcoats to go away? What if you don't want to wait for the war to end? What if you don't want to wait for life, his fucked up life, to give him what he had been wanting for so long: a chance. A chance to become more than an orphan. A chance to fulfill his parent's legacy. A chance to prove himself, instead of having every chance at greatness so close, yet snatched away out of your grip, like the universe toying with you. What would you do?

Maybe he should have talked to John. To all of them. Maybe he could have become great friends with him. You don't realize how much you admire someone, how much you want to see what goes on inside their heads, how much you want to get to know them, until their gone. And the chance is gone too. He had waited to long.

 _"When you don't want to wait, you act."_

Startled, Aaron looked up, feeling hot tears he didn't even know where shedding splashing on his cheeks. Was there someone else in the room? He could have sworn...

"Aaron, are you alright? Is someone here?" Theodosia's voice rang from down the hall, her thick brown coils spiraling down from her head as she peeked into the den, and gazed at Aaron. Her eyebrows were furrowed into worried crinkles, her fists clenched in front of her as she always did when she was nervous. Holding Theodosia close to his chest, Aaron felt the tears roll down his face. "No, Theodosia. No one's here."

However, no sooner than the words had escaped his lips, Aaron could have sworn a breeze whipped through the room, but it wasn't cold as it should have been on an autumn night. It was warm, full of growth and rebirth, happiness and light, comforting and nice. From behind the door to Theo's room, he thought he could hear his daughter cooing softly. And, near the blowing windows, Aaron thought he saw a single fist, grasping a mug of beer, the cup raised to the sky...


End file.
